I used to be smart

I used to be smart.

No really. I used to be smart. But then I had kids.

I remember when it happened. My husband and I used to play a game called “Guessing Songs” on car trips. (Yeah, I know what an ingenious name.) Before the chorus, you got a point for yelling out the correct song name and a point for the artist/band. We might even award a third point if you could recite the album title (something my iTunes-loving children will probably never appreciate). Rick was good, but I was better. I could sweep the proverbial floor with him.

And then I went and got pregnant. All of the sudden he was killing me at this game. It was like someone poured Aunt Jemimas down my neural pathways. Obscure songs that should have rolled right off my tongue – they just weren’t there. Or if they were there, they were frustratingly a beat behind my husband. As most wives will tell you: there is nothing as frustrating as getting thrashed at a game you rule by your husband (especially if that husband is my husband, one of the world’s premiere smart alecks.) Needless to say, we stopped playing that game. If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Since then, it’s all been down hill at a dawdling, but ever-increasing pace. My mind has proven unreliable on numerous occasions. I’ve called my mom (really) more than five times to remind me of the code to get in the front door at my grandma’s assisted living. I’ve taken a kid to school with no shoes on his feet in the middle of winter. (If your car is in the garage, why take the time to put your shoes on in the house?) I’ve driven all the way around Sonic -- possibly more than once -- looking for the drive thru at the Sonic that does not have a drive thru window. And these are the things I’m willing to admit.

I mean really. I graduated from Journalism at UNL with honors when UNL was one of the top 10 News-Editorial schools in the nation. I was a writer for a computer magazine, writing about how computers work, how the Internet was formed, and interviewing bigwigs at computer companies for nice little biographical filler pieces. I flew to computer shows around the country and had jumpy pr people asking “how high” when I needed quotes or software for an article. I was smart. As my brother always said, I could have been high school valedictorian but instead I had a social life. But enough with reliving the past. . .

I would blame it on turning 40, but my husband is older than I am and I know he doesn’t make as many bonehead choices as I do. I would blame it on the hormones, but that seems lame. It may have started with the screwy, nine-months-of-throwing-up hormones, but those are long gone.

I put the blame squarely on my children. I mean, why not? They are the ones that left my figure in ruins and made me forget how to throw killer Friday night parties. They are also the ones who stole my identity. I am no longer identified by my first name. I am Joe’s mom and Mandy’s chaperone. (I know, a whole other issue, but I have issues.) Yet I don’t feel like somebody’s mom most days. I still glance over my shoulder for my mother-in-law when I hear someone say Mrs. Krushenisky.

And now my kids are in their teens, or knocking on that door. Oh, I’ve heard the horror stories. Older mothers are quick to pass along all the nuggets of knowledge they’ve picked up over the years. Just wait until they learn how to drive. Just wait until the boys are lining up the driveway. (I’ll leave that to Rick with his guns and camo. He’s been planning for this since the first time I threw up and now is readying for his concealed carry permit.)

If I was to really try to put my finger on it, I think it has something to do with how your brain changes when you become a mom. All those hormones transform you from a know-it-all to a do-it-all. You may not be their first choice when they need help with math, but you are the first one they blame if they don’t have a water bottle at football practice. All the sudden you have the multi-tasking skills of a superwoman. You feel naked without your calendar. Somehow you remember to wash (and dry) their uniform before the game and feel as if you are a total failure if once, just once, you forget it’s their turn for show and tell. (Blast that calendar.) And these powers are utilized not only by your kids, but your husband relies upon them as well. If you know Rick, you know Rick is the biggest kid at our house, figuratively and literally. It’s up to you to remember a gift for his mother’s birthday, where he put his carpal tunnel arm band, and when he has a chiropractor appointment. All the sudden you find yourself holding up this whole gigantic ship. And somehow you try not to remind them that they would all be lost without someone to hold it all together. Maybe I don’t always succeed at that one.

At this point in my life I try to tell myself that my smartness is changing. (Yes I talk to myself, no I don’t answer back.) I may not be able to recall important facts and figures, or what I walked into this room to get, but I have smarts in other areas. For instance, little boys didn’t brush their teeth if the toothbrush is still dry. Broccoli can not be completely hidden under a pile of ketchup. If the piano book hasn’t changed position, no one practiced. Regarding social studies homework: “fatboy” is never the answer. I think this may apply to most homework categories, but not to motorcycles and safes. Also, I may be blind without my contacts but I can see the blue light of a cell phone down the hall when someone is texting numerous boyfriends at 1am after hours.

Ok, so I haven’t completely lost it. It’s still there. Just give me a little time to remember where I put it. Maybe it’s on the calendar.